


Chasing The Road

by cantonforking



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-16
Updated: 2011-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-23 07:57:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantonforking/pseuds/cantonforking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the roads of America, Dean has written his life. Based early season one, no spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing The Road

Most days Dean used to feel like he had driven along every road in the country. True he hadn’t driven through Alaska or Hawaii let alone made it all the way to New York, but it still felt like it. At least 80% of his life was textured by the inside of the Impala and overlaid by her lullaby-soft growl. Now he didn’t even bother focusing on where he was going, just let Baby eat up the road. No matter where he ended up, he always found his way back.

In the end the long ribbons of grey concrete, loose gravel, smooth tar had stopped existing as roads in his mind. They had become strips of memories, the films of his mind unfurled and draped across the landscape.

The flashing ‘V__an_y’ lights colour the raindrops red and pull the Impala to a rumbling halt. Room 13 was their’s. _Isn’t 13 an unlucky?_ Sam had asked him, 8-year-old innocence softening eyes half-hidden by brown curls. _Don’t worry, Sammy. Nothing’s going to get you while I’m here_. Dad had patted Dean on the shoulder before he left, eyes flicking to Sam’s sleeping form. _Look after your brother. I know Dad, that’s my job.  
_  
Gasoline smells creep through the ventilation, that jarring scent that Dean can’t quite decide whether he likes or not. He knows this gas station, knows the exact shade of blue paint smeared on the sign at the door. He knows this because that was what he stared at as he tried to pretend Dad wasn’t yelling at Sam. He let his eyes wander over every crack in the sign, trace every letter detailing the price of pies, until, inevitably, he had to step in between his father and brother. Those were his two jobs, right, protect Sam and try to hold his family together.

Most of the time Dean will avoid the tiny picnic area, next to the tiny pond, surrounded by weeping willows dripping their tears into the water. He will drive for hours along curving backstreets to avoid those few square feet of picture-pretty solitude. When he does drive past all he can hear is Sam’s voice, hesitant and broken, whispering to him as they watch their father check the supplies. _I’m leaving Dean. I can’t stay, not for anything._ Suddenly there is nothing else, nothing else but the hard determination in Sam’s eyes. The determination to leave Dean. He feels the pain, through the years he feels the ache in his heart when he misses his brother. _I’m sorry Dean.  
_  
It was there that was the first time and the only time that he saw his father cry. Huge shaking sobs as if all the pain was being ripped out of his mind as he hunched against the bathroom wall of the truck-stop. Dean hadn’t left the car, back straight as a board, eyes fixed on a hulking shadow in the closing dark. He could hear the words disguised in his father’s sobs. _SamMarygoneDeanDean_. The sobs cut off, choked and shut down, shoved in a ball and pushed deep inside. _Soldiers. Hunters_. They had been silent for the rest of the drive.

Shouting voices and raucous laughter echo from an overflowing bar, probably the only one in town. Dean remembers going in there with his father, both of them running solely on the adrenaline still blasting through their veins from the latest hunt. One beer… laughing with a couple of the old boys from the town… two beers… waiting for the punch line of the latest dirty joke… three beers… playing pool but not really bothering to aim before a shot… six beers… he thinks he’s still standing… seven beers and two shots… _SamSamSammissSammy..._ eight beers and four shots… the floor is punching him in the face.

There is one road that he knows better than any, that quiet street in Palo Alto. He knows the colours of the houses, the dog that never stops barking, the floors of the apartment block. All his memories blur into one, one perfect picture, framed and hung in the back of his mind. There’s a thin coat of dust on it, or he tries to believe there is. He tries to believe it’s been historical for years. There’s a happy couple in the painting, a beautiful blonde girl and a tall dimpled boy. There’s no room for anyone else, no room for family, not in that picture. The place-card underneath reads _Title: Apple-Pie Life; Artist: Happiness; Commissioned by and dedicated to Sam Winchester._

+++

As the motor inn comes in sight, lights winking bravely in the dark, Dean slows and flicks on the indicator. He pulls up to the office and slips out of the Impala, sliding a hand over her dusty flank instinctively. For a moment he squints as the artificial white light assaults his retinas and tries to blink through the sleep dragging him down. He recognises the pock-marked face of the receptionist. The man is all smiles and greetings just like last time.

Last time. He had been 17. Dean and Sam had been holed up in the room for days, their father absent. Sam had done his homework, brow crinkled slightly, nose scrunching every now and then. Dean had helped where he could and watched tv to fill in the gaps. It was just another weekend, just another moment in his life, just another fleeting attempt at a home. Just another precious memory of Sam..

The receptionist gave him the key, room 13. Dean wandered up to the door, snorting at the hanging ‘3’. It was the standard two bed, one room and one bathroom affair. It was the standard temporary bedroom/lounge/kitchen/headquarters/home/life. He’s watching some pay-per-view when yellow lights cast shadows across the room and he hears the sweet sound of his Baby’s growl. Dean’s already opening the door when the hand knocks.

“Hey there, Sammy.” He can’t help but grin as his brother shoves the cartons of Chinese food at him. “You should feel honoured that I let you drive my girl.”

“Yeah, totally man,” Sam replies, not holding back sarcasm as he pushes past Dean into the room. “Dream come true.” He collapses onto the couch, stretching from arm to arm, bent legs too long to fit properly. With a tired sigh his eyes float shut, half asleep already. They’re both exhausted, too many hours of driving, too many hours of hunting, too many hours of not mentioning Dad.

They sit on the couch from the next hour, eating slowly, trying not to fall asleep as they watch some horrendous night-time program. For a heartbeat Dean almost expects to turn to Sam and find him buried in a school book, or hear the fumbling of keys as Dad tries to sneak in. He feels the memories fold back, peel away, stuffed into the lint-filled pocket in his mind. Sam is beside him, watching his back, always in step, curled around him at night. He’s not in the painting anymore, no longer the careful strokes frozen in time and caged in an ornate frame.

Sam is next to Dean in the Impala, gaze fixed out the window, hand resting on Dean's thigh. The roads are new to them all of a sudden. Dean has wound up the films, curled them around his finger, forced them into the pocket. Underneath him the Impala shudders, gripping the grey concrete, loose gravel, smooth tar. She digs in her teeth and soars on, leaving a snail-trail of new memories behind.


End file.
